


Car Bomb

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: The beat of the music isn’t getting any faster but, oh, their hips are. Gabe's got one hand on Patrick's ass, squeezing in time to the beat, and the other is going for Patrick's dick again.
Relationships: Gabe Saporta/Patrick Stump
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Car Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaning out the backlog.

It’s not that Patrick doesn’t like clubbing. Really. He actually sort of loves it. It has something to do with the music (loud, like at a show, only without the vocal strain and the screaming fanbase), and the drinks (which are expensive, but, hey, rockstar), and the eyecandy everywhere. So. Clubbing is not the problem.

The problem is that he’s decided (more like was dragged off against his will) to go clubbing with Mikey and Gabe. And while he loves them both in a special kind of way (Mikey a little awkwardly with the whole being Pete’s ex thing. Gabe as well. Gabe), it’s sort of ridiculous to see him walking in between them.

Mikey’s only a head (okay, maybe a head and a half) taller than him, which is cool. Normal, really. Gabe, though, is a freak of nature, and Patrick is already dreading the crick in his neck. Gabe seems oblivious to this. Mikey flashes Patrick a sympathetic half smile before wandering off to the DJ booth to socialize.

Patrick takes a seat at the bar and orders an Irish Car Bomb. He’s little, but he’s been drinking since he was fifteen and is pretty sure that he can out drink a three hundred pound bear without flinching. Gabe plunks down next to him, steals Patrick’s drink, and starts flirting with the couple standing nearby. Patrick frowns and orders another.

“You have shit taste in drinks, man,” Gabe says after taking a swig from the mug.

"Buy your own, then," Patrick replies. He leans back into the bar, watching the crush of people bopping to the vaguely catchy tune playing over the speakers. He's just about to start a conversation with the bartender when Gabe jumps up from his stool and holds out his hand.

"Dude, dance with me," Gabe shouts over the music. Patrick looks down at his untouched mug and then up at Gabe. Does it again, just to be sure.

"I am so not drunk enough for that." Patrick's thinks nothing can make him drunk enough for that. "Go find Mikey."

"Come on." Gabe makes big, goofy puppy eyes and bats his eyelashes. Patrick raises an eyebrow. (Well, he tries. He's never really mastered that whole moving one without the other thing.) When he makes no move to stand, Gabe grabs his wrist and yanks.

The drink in Patrick's hand sloshes against his chest and spills onto him, sinking into his jacket. He frowns. Gabe laughs, grabs the mug and sets it onto the bar. Patrick can't really fight his way out of Gabe's pull. He's scrappy, but Gabe's got, like, a foot on him. He sees Mikey flash them a thumbs up from the DJ booth, and then all he can see is the pattern of the ass ugly shirt that Gabe's wearing. His face is smushed up against the cotton, and a button is pressing against the tip of his nose uncomfortably.

"I hate your freakishness and your fashion sense," Patrick says as he tries to step back. Gabe laughs and pulls him back in, arms wrapping around Patrick's waist.

"Shut up and dance, Lunchbox," Gabe says against the top Patrick's head. (And Patrick is .so going to kill Pete. Kill him dead.)

With a sigh that's more for show than anything else, Patrick takes up the awkward rhythm Gabe's setting (which is totally off beat). Gabe's arms are still around his waist, and Patrick squirms until he can get his hands onto Gabe's waist. Gabe grins at him.

Patrick is not a dancer. He has the rhythm, but the moves are somewhere that he isn't. This is okay because, currently, he only really has the room to grind up against Gabe's thigh (which has somehow made its way between his own) and shake his ass a little.

This is quite possibly the most awkward he's ever felt in his entire life. (Okay, maybe not, but it still ranks pretty high up there.) Gabe's fingers tighten around Patrick's hips, pulling them forward. Patrick goes with it, cheeks burning. The slide of the shirt under his hands is smooth, and when Patrick rubs, just a little, it comes up far enough that Patrick can see the flat, tan skin of Gabe's stomach.

Patrick's dick twitches. He shuts his eyes and groans because, seriously, he does not need to inflate Gabe's ego any more. When he starts paying attention again, he notices the pulse against his stomach and, oh, Gabe's hard and grinding even harder against him, smirking.

"You're an ass, Saporta," Patrick shouts. Gabe's smirk grows.

"You want my ass?" He laughs at Patrick's flustered hand flapping. "Dude, that's kind of private."

"I hate you." Patrick jumps when one of Gabe's hands slip from his waist to the front of his pants. He whines, hidden under the music, when Gabe cups him, palm pressing down against the head. His head is spinning because he's dancing next to eight hundred people (most of which have seen him on TV) and Gabe fucking Saporta is molesting him. His dick pulses, eager, because Gabe fucking Saporta is molesting him.

"Shut up and grind, Stump." Gabe moves his hand back and Patrick wants to punch him because, seriously, what the fuck? But, then, Gabe's grabbing his ass and pulling him forward. Patrick can feel Gabe's hard-on against his own. This is so much hotter than he had thought it would be.

The people around him fade off, and all he can think about is how good it feels to feel thrusting up against hard, solid hips, just like a goddamn teenager again. He slides his hands under Gabe's shirt, nails sliding across the dip of waist. The skin's hot and a little sweaty, and Patrick wonders if Gabe would let Patrick fuck him. Patrick's hips jerk at the thought.

The beat of the music isn’t getting any faster but, oh, their hips are. Gabe's got one hand on Patrick's ass, squeezing in time to the beat, and the other is going for Patrick's dick again. Patrick pushes up against it, reckless and horny. Gabe laughs. The vibration sends a shiver up Patrick's spine.

Gabe presses him palm hard against Patrick's dick and rubs. Patrick ruts up against it shamelessly. He shudders when he cums, the front of his boxers uncomfortably damp against his thighs and crotch. Gabe thrusts against Patrick's thigh (actually, it's more like his stomach, but Patrick isn't really able to think of schematics at the moment). The hand on Patrick's ass gets tighter, and Gabe makes the stupidest face Patrick has ever seen him make, and then he goes still.

They sway in place, starry-eyed and sated. When Patrick can breathe properly again, he tugs on Gabe's hand, leading him back to the bar. Mikey's sitting there, a knowing look hidden behind the umbrella of his fruity drink. He holds out a hand, long fingers extended. Gabe rolls his eyes, smile still plastered to his face, and shoves a twenty into Mikey's hand.

"I'm not asking," Patrick says as he falls limply onto the stool. He orders a shot and tries not to grin too hard.


End file.
